


The After Party

by LinneaLund



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3843934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinneaLund/pseuds/LinneaLund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern AU where Bellamy is a rockstar, Clarke is a designer and artist. "Clarke knows the first time she meets him that Bellamy Blake is trouble... He’s a rockstar and millionaire for one; his face has been featured on more magazines that she can count. He’s almost too good looking in person: boyish features, broad shoulders, twinkling eyes... to say nothing of his charm!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The After Party

**The After Party**

Clarke knows the first time she meets him that Bellamy Blake is trouble.

He’s a rockstar for one, and millionaire for another. His roguish face has been featured on more magazines that she can count. He’s almost _too good looking_ in person: chiselled features, broad shoulders, twinkling eyes and boyish freckles... to say nothing of his charm!He’s had a different woman on his arm each time she’s seen him on TV, waving to the cameras as he walks into yet another awards show.

Today in the boardroom he shakes her hand, his thumb lingering against her skin for half a heartbeat too long.

“Nice to finally meet you face to face, Ms. Griffin,” he says with a smile so broad it leaves her smiling back despite her best intentions. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Likewise,” she breathes, pulling her fingers back as if burned. Something’s changed in the last second, but she’s not sure what. Last night’s email regarding adjustments to the “E’s” in the font left her wanting to throttle him. (Turns out, he’s harder to dislike in person.)

“So you’re the artist behind it all.” He gestures to the images – dark and multilayered – that are displayed on boards around the room. “The proofs are great. Far better than I’d hoped.” He turns, smiling at her again, making her heart tighten. “They’re fucking amazing. Thanks for listening to all my suggestions. Hope I didn’t drive you too crazy.”

Clarke rankles at that, but she tightens her hands into fists and gives him a tight smile.

“Oh you’re not the first singer I’ve worked with.” She narrows her gaze. “Everyone’s an expert until they’re the one doing it.”

Bellamy chuckles, but he’s blocked by another figure stepping in between them. Jasper, her assistant, is wide eyed and anxious, trying to press a latte into her hands but she waves him away. (Clarke’s got a reputation of explosive arguments with clients.)

“Be nice,” Jasper whispers anxiously.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m always nice.”

Bellamy wanders over to one of the central panels, his eyes narrowing on this image. It looks like a heavy welting of scratches across a dirty wall, paint and dirt and blood mixing the palette. (More than the others, this one is nearest to her _real work._ The ones that hang in the gallery downtown and clutter her studio apartment.) The background is a photograph of one of her more recent works, the multi-layered image so distressed and overworked the text is almost lost in the pattern.

“Dark... gritty,” Blake mutters. “Surprises me actually. You seem more…” He pauses, eyeing Clarke as if measuring something. “Uptight.”

“Thanks, _I think,”_ she snaps, trying to keep her voice even, though she can see Jasper, giving her the _behave-yourself-damnit!_ look that drives her so crazy. Bellamy grins, and ambles back to the table, his easy smile tempting her to believe that it really is a compliment rather than a barb.

“Shall we get started everyone?” someone asks. It’s Bellamy’s agent, Raven Reyes. “Time is money.”

“Don’t I know it,” Clarke mutters, thinking of the lengthy chain of email arguments.

In seconds, Jasper begins ushering everyone to their seats.

Bellamy Blake and the rock band he fronts is on the top of the alternative rock charts for the States. He’s hired Clarke’s design agency to do the promotions for his latest album. The part no one mentions is that he’s been an (absent) thorn in her side the last four weeks, as the two of them sent a flurry of increasingly tense emails back and forth to one another. (Jasper trying, desperately, to intervene.) For the last several days, Clarke had been certain she was going to blow the contract, her annoyance with Bellamy Blake’ presumptions rising to be boiling point.

It doesn’t mean she _isn’t_ attracted to him as he pulls out the seat next to her, shrugging off a faded motorcycle jacket and settling himself, loose-limbed, into the chair; it just means she won’t let him know it. Clarke sits down next to him, back stiff, posture sharp. The two of them are at the head of the table, the rest of the design team – John and Maya, Monty and Lorelei – surrounding them.

 _Why the hell is Blake here anyway?_ Clarke’s mind hisses. _His fucking design team should be handling this!_

But as with everything, Bellamy Blake insists on being in the centre of it all.

Clarke takes furtive glances at him as the rest of the promotions team takes their places. Bellamy is dressed in broken down jeans and a tight black, long-sleeved tee with the word, ‘Apotheosis’ - the band’s name - across the front in silver letters. He has a thin band of leather around one wrist, a stud in his eyebrow, a silver ring on one finger. Clarke waits in growing annoyance, foot tapping against the edge of the table, resisting the urge to snap at her assistant to get this pretty boy out of here.

She looks up to find Bellamy staring. In the last seconds, he’s shifted forward, leaning close to her. Clarke’s eyes widen in shock, grabbing details like she would if drawing him from life. Curving lips, symmetrical brow, narrow nose, dark eyes fringed with black lashes.

 _Fucking gorgeous,_ her mind whimpers.

“You okay, Princess?” he asks.

He says it like an endearment but she still rankles. “Don’t call me that,” she snarls, then turns away, a prickly heat rising up her neck to her cheeks.

“You okay… Clarke?” He smirks. “I can call you Clarke, right?”

“I’m fine. Just fine.”

Across the table, Raven launches into a summary of the band’s CV. It’s things Clarke’s heard a hundred times before and she cannot help but wish that this meeting was one on one, not the song and dance that it is. By the time they’re actually ready to discuss the proofs she’s provided, Clarke’s tense to the point of anger. She and Bellamy have fought endless, polite battles over every single detail. She fully expects today will be no different. Except, of course, for the fact that they’ll have an audience. With a heavy sigh, Clarke hands out the portfolio of work to all of the people at the meeting, describing her process and the cost-estimates for multi-register printing.

She turns to Bellamy, smiling tightly. “So now it’s really up to you and your team, Mr. Blake—”

“Bellamy,” he corrects.

“Right. Bellamy.” She drops his eyes, smoothing the paper of the proof in front of her instead. (It’s hard to hate him when he smiles.) “So now it’s your call.” Her hands tighten back into fists. “Go ahead; give me your worst. I’m _certain_ there are more changes to be made.”

Her eyes come back up, daring him to say it. Bellamy chuckles, watching her, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip in amusement. Around them the rest of the room has gone silent, waiting for his answer.

After a long moment, he speaks.

“Nope,” he says with a shrug. “I prefer doing my work up front and we already did that.” He nods at the album cover proofs. “The images are great, Clarke. Design’s got an edge. I think we’re good to go as is.”

She feels like the time she lost her footing on a second story scaffold, her girlfriend of the moment, Lexa, catching her hand a split-second before she fell.

“As is?” she repeats.

He offers her his open palm, giving her that wide grin again.

“I know what I like when I see it... and I like this.”

His eyes linger for far too long on her lips after he says it.

: : : : : : : : : :

There are several more meetings, the deadline fast approaching. There are the occasional moments when Clarke and Bellamy are at ease, smiling and laughing, but they are far outweighed by the work that needs to be done. The album is ready to go out, and the final meetings are rushed with detail work. They sit on either side of the table, the team of designers surrounding them. Clarke can’t help but wish that it wasn’t so easy to finish it all up, but it is.

In a week and a half, the contract’s done. The files transferred. Money in the bank. In some ways, Clarke’s glad to be done with the project, but another part of her can’t help but wonder what Bellamy’s up to. _Just feeling star-struck..._ her mind growls. _No better than one of his groupies._

She’s seen them, of course. One night, unable to sleep, Clarke had looked up Apotheosis on youtube... something she now regrets. Truth is, Bellamy Blake doesn’t lack for attention, if the videos are to be believed at all. His band is doing just fine _thank-you-very-much._ That night, Clarke had forced herself to close the webpage, heading to her email instead. There she sat and reread the lengthy correspondence, guilt rising inside her. His demands weren’t any worse than any other client’s requests... it was just that he had been so fucking _certain_ all the time. (Clarke’s own answers, she realizes now, in chagrin, were far less polite.) In a sudden rush of embarrassment, she’d hit delete on the chain of emails, waiting for the count of five breaths before the window: _Are you sure you want to permanently delete this correspondence._ She’d sighed and clicked ‘yes’.

She wishes sometimes things had been different, but they weren’t. And as summer turns to fall, Clarke realizes that that chapter in her life has closed. Both she and Bellamy have moved on.

_Never was anything there to begin with._

: : : : : : : : : :

Bellamy wanders through the art gallery, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips. He’s not entirely sure he’s dressed right for this event, but as with most things, he does what he wants. For a minute, his mother’s words come to mind: _Can’t please everyone, so you might as well please yourself._ As a single mother of two in a conservative small town, she’d never given a shit for people’s opinions. Remembering her advice, Blake smirks, stepping around a white-haired woman in a Chanel suit and heels who is glaring at his tattered jeans and worn leather jacket. Bellamy’s mother has been dead and gone for almost a decade, but he still lives by her words.

The gallery is buzzing with activity despite the lateness of the hour, patrons admiring the oil paintings that fill the white walls. The images on them are abstract and angry. Full of hidden secrets.

_Like her..._

Bellamy pauses for a moment, scanning the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Clarke’s blonde hair and curving body. He moves past another painting and another, waiting and hoping, his mother’s voice appearing once more: _“If you see something you want, then you don’t let it go, Bellamy. Sitting around gets you nothing.”_ For a decade, that advice has been the reason Blake has pushed more, worked harder, gone further than anyone has expected in a business that’s known to be cruel. (The music industry likes to eat its young and Bellamy’s been in the game a long, long time.) His mother’s remembered words are the reason he keeps trying when he doesn’t want to. They are the thoughts that keeps him going when something he wants is out of his reach.

_Tonight that’s her._

He’s been thinking about Clarke Griffin since the whirlwind week last spring, when the two of them worked side by side on the promotions for his current album. She intrigued him then, with her quick anger and even quicker laughter. He now regrets doing most of the adjustments to the proof via email. (It kept him from seeing her more.) But he intends to change that tonight. This is her opening. And as the artist, she’s almost certainly here.

Bellamy reaches the end of the gallery space and stops walking, turning in a slow circle, his eyes on the crowd. For a moment the press of bodies thins and he sees her standing next to a painting a stone’s throw away. She’s talking to a man in a sharp, pinstriped suit. He has dark hair – a little too long to be conservative – and angry eyes. As Bellamy watches, he reaches out, taking hold of her elbow, fingers tight. She shrugs it off, hissing something at him and takes a step away, arms crossing on her chest.

Bellamy’s heart sinks.

For several seconds, he watches them. He knows he should leave, but he’s come this far. Undecided, he finds himself reading the small details in the tenseness of Clarke’s body, and the way the man’s jaw is jumping in anger. The low words passing between them.

And then Clarke glances up.

Her expression flip flops, and she strides forward. Bellamy thinks she’s going to yell at him – half expects her to actually – but she slides her arm into his instead, leaning in and smiling up at him.

“Took you long enough to get here, Bellamy,” she pants, standing on tip toe and pressing a sudden kiss to his cheek. “Thought you’d gotten lost.”

Bellamy opens his mouth and closes it again, thoughts scrambling to keep up. She’s playing with him and he has no idea why. There’s a flicker of motion and he sees that the suit is approaching. That clinches it. Blake smiles, leaning in.

“Well, the gallery isn’t the easiest place to find.” He runs his hand up the back of her arm, pulling her nearer, her hip bumping up against his. “And since I didn’t have your number I had to find my way.”

The dark-haired man – whoever he is – has made it to their side. He scowls at Bellamy for a moment before his eyes go back to Clarke. He looks, Blake thinks, uncomfortable having him here.

“Look, Clarke, when you’re done with your friend.” His eyes flicker to Bellamy, assessing something. “Maybe we could talk about the show at the Tate. I still think—”

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, interrupting whatever he was about to say, “I want you to meet Finn Collins.” She drags Blake closer, forcing him right up against her, her arm around Bellamy’s back. “My agent.”

Her cheeks are bright with colour, breath coming in rapid pants. If Blake had to guess, he’d say the two of them were in the middle of a fight. Finn turns and extends his hand.

“Good to meet you, Bellamy,” he says tiredly. “Hope you’re enjoying Clarke’s show.”

Blake grins and shakes his hand.

“More now that she’s here.” He winks. “Glad I didn’t miss you, Princess.”

Clarke smiles up at him. (Later, he’ll tell their friends that she was batting her eyelashes at him.) In truth, however, she just looks relieved and a little bit panicked.

“I’m not the one who’s late,” she says with a brittle laugh. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Am I ever.”

He nods and with that, they turn, leaving Finn Collins in their wake. When Bellamy pushes open the gallery door to let Clarke step through, he glances back over his shoulder.

Finn stands watching them, rooted to the spot.

: : : : : : : : : :

They’re sitting at an all-night diner, two mostly-empty cups of coffee between them. They’ve gone through all the niceties of conversation – the weather and the new album and the catching up on their lives, as separate as they are – now the hesitancy of this meeting weighs the air between them. Bellamy’s eyes are drawn to the woman who sits before him. Clarke looks different than she did at the meetings they had: more raw and exposed.

_Beautiful..._

Tonight she wears a black silk dress and high heels, her long blonde hair – usually tied back sharply – loose and waving over her shoulders. He watches as she adds cream to her coffee, stirring it with a clinking spoon. She is moving nervously, whatever happened at the gallery clearly still on her mind.

 _Coffee may not have been the best decision,_ Bellamy thinks with a smile.

Clarke apparently sees it.

“What?” she mutters.

“Nothing.”

  
Her eyes narrow. “You were smirking,” she says, “and I want to know about what.”

Bellamy considers lying but he doesn’t want things to start that way. Instead he reaches out, putting his hand next to her arm on the melamine tabletop. (Close, but not touching). She eyes his fingers warily.

“The guy at the gallery,” Blake says with a half-smile. “Your boyfriend?”

Clarke snorts, rolling her eyes and lifting the cup to drink.

“Hardly,” she grumbles as she sets the cup back down. It clinks loudly on the tabletop and she frowns.

Bellamy waits. He knows she’s lying. “He _was_ though...” he prompts.

Her eyes jump back up. For a moment he thinks she’s not going to argue, but then she lifts the coffee again, watching him over the top of the rim, gaze narrowed. The cup held between them, a barrier.

“Finn’s my _ex_ -husband.” The word ‘ex’ feels like it’s in quotation marks, as if it means something special, both more and less than broken vows.

“Ah...” Blake says with a nod.

He doesn’t comment further, and for a moment the conversation falls back into a lull. Usually Bellamy would be trying to get it moving – he likes the energy of discussion – but he has a feeling Clarke needs her space tonight and he doesn’t want her to bolt. She’s frowning again as she stares at the coffee in her cup.

“Why’d you come to my opening?” she suddenly asks, lifting her chin and staring at him. “I mean an art gallery? Hardly seems like your kind of thing.” She snorts. “Being a rockstar and all.”

Bellamy shrugs.

“The band’s my job,” he admits, (telling her something _he knows_ , but doesn’t usually share.) “I love it but it’s not the only thing I enjoy.” He smiles, the fingers sitting near her arm uncurling and touching her for the first time. She glances back down, eyes widening. “I came to the opening because I wanted to see your art. The real stuff. Not the commercial.”

Clarke’s staring at his fingers as he begins to move them, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Bellamy doesn’t grab hold of her– he has the feeling she’d bolt from him the same way as she’d done with Finn – but he runs his finger along her arm instead, tracing slowly over the soft skin.

  
“But the truth is,” Bellamy adds, “I wanted to see you again too.”

She shivers, closing her eyes. “Why?” she whispers, her lashes a black wing against her cheek.

Bellamy chuckles. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met, Princess.”

Her eyes flutter open, and he sees the blue is flecked with silver, like stars in the dark. She opens her mouth and then closes it again. As he watches, Clarke’s expression changes, the vulnerability disappearing under a harder mask.

“You shouldn’t go saying stuff like that, Bellamy,” she says. “Sounds like a bad line from a movie.”

He leans in, his hand finding her fingers on the table, threading through them. For all her words, he can still feel that Clarke’s hands are shaking.

“It’s only a line if it’s not true.”

: : : : : : : : : :

They’re in the back of a cab moving down the city streets, the neon lights of downtown blurring in the window like the lights from a carnival. Bellamy is half aware of the cabbie who keeps ogling them in the mirror; the rest of his attention is on Clarke, her body lush and wanton. She has her hands in his hair, the kiss dragging on without end. She sits half on his lap, her ass pressed up against his crotch, the curve of it rocking against him with each bump.

By the time they make it to the downtown hotel where Bellamy’s staying, he’s so hard he can hardly walk. He pushes a fifty at the cabbie, grabbing Clarke’s hand and dragging her along with him into the building, her laughter hitting him like a punch to the gut. He wants her so fucking badly he can taste it.

The doorman snickers as they approach, hand in hand. He pulls open the door, giving Bellamy a nod.

“Evening Mr. Blake,” he mutters, eyeing Clarke appreciatively. “Hope you had an enjoyable evening.”

Bellamy doesn’t even bother to answer. (The evening’s only starting.)

In minutes they’re in the elevator, Clarke pinned against the wall as Bellamy falls back to kissing her again. He has his hips angled against hers, the hardness of his cock pressed up against her leg. She runs her fingers down his chest, reaching the waistband of his jeans and grabbing hold. Bellamy groans and she giggles, the sound leaving him gasping. There’s _something_ about her. Some connection he cannot deny. Blake’ hands slide over the silk of her dress, circling over her breasts, kneading through the barrier of fabric, hinting at more. She moans against his mouth just as the bell on the elevator announces their arrival.

They sprint down the hallway hand in hand. Each knows where this is going, both ready and willing. They reach the door and for thirty, frustrating seconds, Bellamy fights with the key card, his mind shouting at him to _hurry up! Hurry up! HURRY UP!_ Suddenly Clarke turns toward him.

“Key,” she says sharply, hand outstretched, “let me try.”

She steps in front of him, fiddling with the card – it still doesn’t work – while Bellamy’s hands explore her body through the layers of silk, revelling in the feel of her. He lifts her hair to the side, his teeth nipping the edge of her neck and Clarke gasps. Bellamy just begins to lift the bottom of her dress when the door buzzes and the two of them tumble through. ( _Thank god,_ he thinks, _or this’d be happening in the hall.)_ Clarke spins around, kissing him again.

In seconds they are on the bed, clothes being shed in a heated rush. She’s wearing a lace bra and panties under the dress, the sheerness of it leaving little to the imagination. Bellamy groans, dropping his mouth to the white column of her throat, kissing his way down to her breasts. He pushes the lace aside and tugs one nipple into his mouth. Clarke gasps, her hands clawing at his back, writhing under him.

There’s a moment of fumbling while she pulls away her panties, kicking them off the end of the bed. Bellamy rolls to the side, reaching down to the floor and searching the pockets of his jeans for a condom. For several panicked seconds he’s _certain_ he must’ve forgotten to bring one, but then his finger catches on the edge of the packaging, and he pulls it out, sliding it on with shaking fingers. His reaction to Clarke surprises him, but she’s been in his thoughts so long that now that the moment is here, he finds himself overwhelmed by it.

Suddenly she’s sitting behind him, her arms wrapping over his shoulders, kissing his neck, nipping at his earlobe. Blake groans, twisting around so that he can drag her into his arms, his mouth rough against her, the kiss leaving the two of them breathless. She pushes him backward and Bellamy falls down on the bed while she straddles him. The moment he’s thought about is here and he finds himself recording things in split-second snapshots. The way she tips her head back, blonde waves of hair spilling over her shoulders, the soft curve of her unbound breasts, her hand reaching between them, guiding him home.

He gasps as she slides down on his length and begins to move. She’s tight and wet and Bellamy’s mind goes white with the feel of her around him. He concentrates on his breathing, dragging his hands over her skin as she finds her pace. One hand cups a breast, rolling the nipple hard, while the other drops between them, the pad of his thumb finding her clit and teasing her gently. A ragged sob tears from Clarke’s throat, her eyes fluttering closed and Blake fights down the urge to come right then and there. His hands play over her skin, finding the tiny spots that she likes, recording them for next time, because it’s not even a question, there _will_ be a next time... and a time after... and after...

She’s gasping and moaning, her body tightening around him like a fist while she rides him. Sensing her nearing the edge, he grabs hold of her waist, flipping Clarke down onto the bed and sheathing himself in her. She cries out, her fingers scrabbling over his shoulder, sliding for purchase. Feeling himself slipping closer and closer to release, Bellamy tips her chin up, kissing her deeply, his thrusts picking up, moving in time to her rising moans. Her heels are digging into the back of his thighs, her teeth catching now and again on his lower lip as the kiss grows frantic. Suddenly Clarke tips her head back, letting out a keening moan, her whole body shuddering in waves of ecstasy.

And that’s it. There’s no holding back. He’s there with her too, gasping as climax overtakes him. He thrusts twice more, his whole body flying, for a moment, as he holds her somewhere in the heavens. He spirals back to Earth unbound. Surprised to find she’s still there to catch him as he falls.

Long minutes later, they are lying still in bed, Clarke tucked into the crook of his shoulder. Her fingers play over the skin of his chest, her ear against his shoulder, her eyes heavy lidded. Bellamy smiles to himself. Clarke’s not going anywhere, just relaxing against him. Suddenly she glances up, catching him watching her. She frowns, her hand going still, shoulders tensing. She’s about to move (Bellamy can sense it) but he’s faster.

“I really _did_ like your paintings,” he says quietly. “I never realized that the background you used on the album cover was one of them.”

Her expression ripples.

“Yeah,” she admits, “it was.”

Blake reaches down, his hand tracing the side of her cheek then brushing over her lower lip.

“I’d like to see more of your artwork sometime.” He smiles. “If you’d let me.”

The line between her brow eases, her body settling nearer. He feels her soften and relax.

“Studios only a few blocks away,” she says quietly. “We could go, if you wanted.”

He grins. He can feel things clicking into place.

“Yeah,” Bellamy answers. “I’d like that.”


End file.
